Death By Normality, {Tag Arius?}

[DEAN WINCHESTER]

A hunter’s life - or rather his work, which in many cases takes over their life - is fraught with many dangers and many inalienable truths. For one, there are no ‘days off’. Hunts can crop up at any time and can drag out for weeks, months and even years in some cases where the prey follows a specific cycle of predatory activity. If a job came across Dean’s radar for instance, he felt morally bound to investigate it whether he was exhausted, wounded or in the middle of something else entirely. It could be that getting to it was delayed by a previous hunt, but he wouldn’t forget about it. Once things had been wrapped up on case one, then he could move straight onto case two. It was probably the reason why he was so bone weary all the time these days. At thirty three, he could hardly claim it was old age, though to be fair, thirty three was way above the life expectancy for a hunter.

It ain’t the years, it’s the mileage.

Another unfortunate fact is that the hunting life can be unforgivingly lonely at times. If you’re lucky, and Dean considered himself to be so for many years when he had Sam as his back up, you find a partner you can work with who doesn’t leave you in the lurch at crunch time and who you can stand to be around for more than a few hours a day. Many hunters were notoriously unsociable and to be perfectly honest, Dean had his own moments where he was just plain irritating to everyone else around him. He’d lost count of the number of times Sam had stormed out of a room because Dean was being particularly obnoxious towards him. Still, that was siblings for you. Live in each others pockets for long enough and you end up knowing just how much pressure to apply to each others buttons in order to instigate a bitch fit.

Of late though, Dean hadn’t seen that much of his younger brother. Conflicting jobs, distance and bad blood had kept them apart at one time or another and right now Dean was in an entirely different state to Sam. How that had come about he wasn’t entirely sure. Yes, Sam had become quite the hunter in his own right, but the nagging sense of duty to protect his over grown, puppy-eyed kid brother was constantly at the back of Dean’s mind. It always had been ever since they were little. It was weird to be separated from him, even now after they’d spent so much time apart thanks to Dean’s deal and his whole trip to Hell, and as usual, that missing sense of purpose left him feeling more than a little out of sorts. In it’s placed rushed the tiredness and the loneliness making him wish that he could find himself another case to work just so he’d have something to distract himself.

In the end however, the local newspapers had let him down, providing him with absolutely nothing to investigate unless he actually wanted to go look for Mrs. Dowson’s missing cat, Ginger, and even that story lacked any intrigue. Ginger, a strictly house cat - had run away after Mrs. Dowson had left a window open. Judging by the description of the ever so slightly sanity-impaired lady, Dean couldn’t blame the animal for wanting to flee. He’d probably have done the same if he had been forced to live in a house that had all eighteen of her previous pets stuffed and mounted in various rooms..

Demons I get, people are crazy…

With a sigh of boredom, Dean folded the newspaper and dropped it on the seat beside him, choosing instead to stare through the circular window in front of him at his monotonously churning laundry while it went through it’s soapy cycle. Sure, it was a necessity of life to do mundane things like wash clothes or stock up on supplies, but they were activities that never ceased to drain any kind of lust for life out of Dean quicker than a Djinn’s mojo.

But needs must he supposed. After his last couple of hunts, he’d been left with very few items of clothing that hadn’t been stained with blood and/or other disgusting substances. Now and then some things just had to be salted and burned because there was no way that those reminders were ever coming out again, no matter how much Dean scrubbed them in a motel sink. It was a down side to his lifestyle really and a reason why he never owned anything white or lightly coloured. At least with dark greens and blacks the bloodstains didn’t show up so obviously and he never had to separate his whites when it came to laundry day. Everything just got tossed in the machine together. Quite literally everything since the only clothes he owned that weren't in the washing machine right now were the ones on his back. The last clean t-shirt and least dirty pair of jeans and button down shirt he had left which was probably what prompted the afternoon of sitting in an empty laundrette in the first place.

Watching a loose coin bouncing around inside the drum, Dean made a mental note to empty his pockets next time, idly wondering what else he’d forgotten to take out too. He hoped there hadn’t been any bills in there as there was nothing more depressing than finding bits of a twenty dollar bill stuck inside your jeans pocket when you came to put them on again. He never had that much money at the best of times and laundering it - in the none mobster sense of the word - was something he couldn’t afford to do on a regular basis.

Fact number three about being a hunter was that the pay sucked. Unless you were the type of person who had no soul and didn’t have any qualms about accepting payment from innocent victims who barely had two cents to rub together themselves, then you had to do the job for other reasons. Most did it out of revenge for lost loved ones or because they just hated evil sons of bitches. Some did it for the thrill of the chase, the adrenaline junkies who got off on the action side of things, while others just wanted to make the world a safer place to live in. For Dean, it was a combination of all those things but more than anything it was because he simply didn’t know how to do anything else. He’d never had to work a nine to five job (the whole Zachariah office stunt not withstanding), nor had he ever had a steady pay check. His money came from hustling pool or poker, or scamming credit card companies using false names and fake addresses.

Sam had often questioned their means of funding when he was younger, pleading with John to do what normal people did, going out to earn their money rather than the shady, grey area methods that they were forced to employ. But Dean hadn’t seen any such stigma with being a conman so long as it didn’t hurt anybody. Credit card companies were insured and any fool who thought they were god’s gift to gambling were bringing it on themselves when they got scammed over the pool table. Neither of which was an easy way to get money, by any means. Hustling was a dangerous gig in itself because believe it or not, people - especially drunk, macho men - didn’t like to loose their money to pretty boys that their own women fawned over. Call it a sting to the male pride, but it didn’t go down too well if you got caught pulling a fast one. There had been numerous brawls in bars and alleyways over the years when marks had felt that Dean’s miraculous winning streak had seemed a little too unlikely and right now, he was still sporting a very impressive black eye thanks to his latest money making shenanigans.

It was his own fault really, he’d taken his eye off the ball, had had a few too many whiskey chasers and had given his number to the wrong hot chick at the bar. One thing had led to another and when her already irate boyfriend came out the back door of the joint looking for the douche that had ripped him off over the pool table, he wasn’t best pleased to find that the Dean had his hands all over his girl’s ass and that she wasn’t complaining about it because she was far too busy sticking her tongue in Dean‘s mouth. To be fair, he wasn’t complaining about that either.

It would have been over in a few seconds if Dean had been sober and if the guy hadn’t roped in two of his buddies to hold Dean against the wall while he swung his fists, but even against the odds Dean had come out victorious. Some skills you just can’t teach and his innate ability to get himself out of the sticky situations he so often landed himself in saved his ass once again. Admittedly, the black eye still throbbed the day after but at least the bruised kidneys were easing up a bit now, and he could guarantee that the other guys were in much worse shape. Probably best to not stick around town too long though in case they wanted retribution. He just needed to finish his laundry, gas up the Impala and stock up on some snacks for the road and he was good to go.

Finally the washing machine he’d been staring blankly at for the last half an hour came to the end of it’s cycle and Dean dragged himself out of his thoughts, scrubbed a hand over his stubble covered jaw to cover a yawn and stood, feeling the creak of weary bones as he wandered across to moves the wet laundry into a dryer. A few quarters later and he was back to sitting on the uncomfortably hard plastic chairs, arms folded and vacant eyes staring at his clothes through an altogether different round porthole of boredom. The intermittent clunk of something smacking against the glass reminded him that he still hadn’t taken the coin out but he’d sat down already and really couldn’t be bothered to go fish it out now. Besides, it was pretty much the only noise apart from the machine in the otherwise empty laundrette, or at least it was until the door opened with a little jingle of the bell hanging above it.

[SASTRE QUICKSILVER]

Sastre stepped into the laundromat, an old canvas military bag of dirty clothes slung over his shoulder.

This was the first chance that he'd had to do any laundry since leaving Kay's place a couple weeks back, and after traveling across the country and Rambo-ing his way through a vamp nest or two, he was pretty much out of anything to wear. Even the clothes he did have on were dirty and more than a little blood-stained, making him look no doubt like a homeless beggar at best, or some sort of reclusive murderer at worse.

Glancing around, he noted that there weren't many others here, and he wandered over to start stuffing his clothes into a washing machine, putting in the necessary money and leaning back against the machines across from his, arms crossed over his chest, usual scowl firmly in place.

As usual, when left with nothing else to occupy his time, Sastre slipped into a dark mood, brooding as he thought of everything that had happened in the past few months. His world had been turned completely upside down, and even now he was just starting to put things back together, only find that even more trouble was preparing to bury him alive. Always one to work alone, and to keep on the move, working job after job after job, Sastre had found things getting way out of hand...

The apocalypse...

That's what Kay had called it, and he was forced to agree that it was as good a name for what was going on out there as anything else. Something had really riled up the nasties, like hitting a beehive with a stick, and it seemed that Sastre and the others like him were being forced to deal with the consequences. Not only were their usual offenders--the ghosts, vampires, werewolves, and others--apparently kicking things into high gear, but the sudden influx of possessions, demonic omens, and encounters with new creatures were quickly wearing on him, driving him into a state of such complete and total weariness that he could hardly function sometimes.

The Slender Man...

The thought of "new creatures" immediately brought his near-disastrous encounter with the Slender Man to mind. Sastre was no rookie, he'd been hunting or at least training to be a hunter since he was eight years old, and on top of that he had the full journals of the previous thirteen "Sastre Quicksilvers" at his disposal. Those journals contained knowledge going back hundreds of years, and none of them had contained any sort of information on a creature like the Slender Man. Plainly put, no hunter that Sastre knew of had ever faced one, and that unfortunately meant that no one knew how to kill it. The monster had battered him around pretty badly before--luckily--Kay's protective archangel had smote it into oblivion.

Kay...

The young prophet was yet another of the major changes in Sastre's life, and he had to admit that he wasn't entirely sure yet if it was a change for the better. How she had managed to so easily slip past all of his defenses he didn't know, but the fact was that at this point, she'd come to mean a lot to him. Several months before, when they'd first met, Sastre had admittedly felt drawn to her, but he'd attributed that to loneliness, and to his own unfortunate weakness of always seeming to need someone. Now, though, after having spent so much time with her, after having her nurse him back to health after the Slender Man incident, and after they'd both admitted their feelings...? Sastre just didn't know if this was such a great idea. Divine protection or not, she would always be in danger because of him. Could he do that again to someone? As much as he tried to tell himself that he should end this fledgling relationship with Kay, Sastre couldn't ignore the feeling of emptiness that overtook him when she wasn't around...

Ronnie...

His chance encounter with the equally-capable vampire hunting loup had definitely added a new layer of chaos and stress to Sastre's life. He'd readily agreed to help her in her mission of ending the vampire kidnapping ring and rescuing her daughter, because after all, he didn't really need any more reason to kill vampires. This quest had already taken him all over the country, and though he'd managed to take down a few nests--and rescue more children--he'd yet to find some bit of information that would take the ring down, other than doing things the old fashioned way. Even with everything else going to hell in the world, Sastre would never abandon this cause, no matter what.

Darian...

For the past couple months, Sastre had been plagued with... visions? Hallucinations? Honestly, he didn't know what to call them, but he'd been seeing his brother. His very dead brother. It wasn't much, a quick sighting out of the corner of his eye, a vanishing face in a crowd... but it was enough to put Sastre on edge, and to make him nervous and worried. Just days ago he'd returned to New Mexico to pay his respects at Gwen's grave, and while he was there he'd undertaken the gruesome task of digging up his brother's remains to make sure the body was still there. It was, of course, which should have made Sastre feel better but, in reality, only caused him more worry. Thinking that what he'd been seeing might have been Darian's restless spirit, Sastre had finally given in and salted and burned his brother's remains. He hadn't seen anything more unusual since then, so he prayed that it was over, but in his gut he wasn't so sure...

His contacts...

This was actually the reason he was in town. Over the last few weeks, Sastre had been finding it impossible to get a hold of some of his contacts. It was as if they'd simply vanished off the face of the earth, which at this point wasn't entirely out of the question. He'd been on the road for days, first making the long trip from Salem out to Four Corners, New Mexico, then from there he'd made his way up here to North Dakota, and this particular town where one of his missing contacts had lived for years. If something was preying on his informants, then Sastre needed to know...

Sighing, he snapped out of his brooding to cast another look around the place, spotting another man who looked to be about his age sitting a few machines down. Sastre nodded a greeting, that universal "Hey, how ya doin'?" nod shared by men everywhere before pulling his laundry out of the washer and switching it over to the drier. He couldn't help but notice something in the other man's demeanor, something familiar that he'd seen time and time again.

The man was dangerous. Sastre wasn't sure how he could tell, but all of his hunter's instincts were telling him this, and he's long since learned to listen to his gut. It was something about the way the man sat... He looked relaxed, but underlying that was the sense that he was ready to act at a moment's notice. And then there were his eyes... They were old, older than they should be for someone his age. Sastre knew that look all too well, it was the same one that he saw every time he glanced in a mirror. Add all of that to the rumpled, dirty, nearly combat-fatigue look of his clothing, and it all pointed to one thing:

Hunter.

Glancing at the man again, Sastre studied him a bit closer, wondering if he really was a hunter, and if so, what had brought him here? Could it be that he was on the trail of whatever was taking out Sastre's contacts (assuming, of course, that something was)? The hunter frowned, unsure of where to go from here. You didn't just approach someone and ask them if they were a hunter or not... He had to be subtle about this, and admittedly, subtlety was not one of Sastre's strong points.

After getting the drier going, he absently wandered over to the other man, nodding a greeting again and leaning against the machines as he spoke.

"I know this is going to sound strange," he began awkwardly, "but you remind me of a guy I know... Worked in pest control. Sound familiar?"

[DEAN WINCHESTER]

There was no escaping the fact Dean Winchester was a handsome man. By the good graces of genetics, he’d turned out with the strong cheekbones and jaw of his father and the softer, caring eyes of his mother. It was a winning combination with that ladies and, especially in his younger years, he used it all to his advantage in attracting the opposite sex. He’d grown accustomed to being stared at in public, in bars or diners by women who were mentally undressing him or on occasion by lawmen who were trying to figure out if he was the guy in the wanted picture they’d seen back at the office. Both of which he could understand, but the scruffy hobo serial killer staring at him a few machines down was neither and his looks were starting to weird Dean out.

When he casually sauntered over with the opening gambit of, "I know this is going to sound strange, but you remind me of a guy I know…”, Dean’s initial reaction was to run for the hills. He didn’t have a problem with gay men, to each their own and all that, but when they tried to pick him up he just felt awkward and uncomfortable having to point out that he didn’t swing that way. It was even worse when Sam was with him and they commented about his brother joining them for some fun as though they hadn’t realised the two were a couple. He’d never been able to figure out why people thought they were homosexual, despite Sam’s suggestion that he might appear to be over compensating with his butchness.

“I think you’ve got me mixed up with some one else pal, I’m not from around here.” Dean offered with a forced smile, trying to be polite with his brush off. He’d had enough hassle in the town already, didn’t want to cause another scene in the Laundromat.

[SASTRE QUICKSILVER]

Sastre chuckled a bit as the man practically bristled.

He shook his head and leaned back against the dryer, watching him closely. Yes, he definitely had the "hunter" look about him. Running a hand through his hair, Sastre wondered how bad it would be if he was wrong, and said something that a normal person would find unusual. Still, it was a chance he was willing to take, if it meant getting some answers about what had happened to his contact.

'If I thought you were from around here," Sastre said, lowering his voice and locking eyes with the man, "then I never would have approached you." Falling silent again, Sastre wondered exactly how he was going to go about this and, in the end, decided the direct approach probably couldn't make things any worse than he already had.

"I'm here to look into some strange disappearances... You in town on a job too?"

With the question finally out there, Sastre felt a bit better, though he was still ready to back off if it turned out he was wrong. He trusted his instincts, though, and he'd been in the game long enough to recognize a fellow player. The real question was, what kind of a hunter was this guy? And, most importantly of all, could he be trusted?

[DEAN WINCHESTER]

'If I thought you were from around here, then I never would have approached you."

For the briefest of moments, Dean wasn’t sure if the guy in front of him was threatening him, coming on to him still, or just plain weird. Without realising it, he had already begun scrutinising every detail on the man with the trained eye of a hunter, looking for the tell tale clues that would help him identify whether fight or flight would soon be needed.

The first thing that caught his eye was the minor bulge under his jacket that to Dean made it obvious that he was carrying a weapon. That should have been enough to cause alarm, but there were many reasons for a man to walk around with a gun, particularly in out of the way places such as this, so he subtly looked a little closer at what the guy was wearing now that he was nearer to him.

Sure enough, there were the usual markers that stood out from personal experience. The worn patches on the knees of his jeans and the elbows of his jacket, evidence that these were clothes that had been worn a lot or had been thoroughly abused as part of a rough lifestyle. The ends of his sleeves were frayed slightly too, the odd spot of something dark and suspiciously blood like dotted around, giving Dean the impression that he was no stranger to a fight.

His fingernails were the biggest clue, neat but dirty underneath, possibly from time spent digging up graves. Sure enough, his knuckles bore the same patterns of calluses’ that Dean’s own did. Scars from numerous brawls and proof of a life of hardship and getting his hands dirty. Even if the man in front of him hadn’t spoken again, Dean felt sure he was talking to a fellow hunter anyway.

"I'm here to look into some strange disappearances... You in town on a job too?"

The relief on Dean’s face was obvious as it dawned on him he wasn’t getting hit on by a dude. He smiled then, a sheepish ‘can’t believe I didn’t pick up that you were a hunter sooner’ kind of look in his eyes as he mentally made excuses he was exhausted and not thinking straight.

“You’re a hunter?” He asked, still needing that clarification before he launched into any kind of talk about what he really did for a living. The opening comment about pest control made so much more sense now that he was on the right wavelength, but Dean was never one quick to trust. Opening up to a complete stranger just because they said they were a hunter wasn’t smart. Sure, he’d be polite, make friendly chit chat, but the juicy details would have to wait until he could check out with Bobby whether this guy was legitimate or not.

“I was actually just passing through, haven’t heard about any strange disappearances otherwise I might have stuck around longer.”

Okay, so his interest had been piqued, didn’t mean anything. This guy might have been talking about missing cats for all he knew.


{{Sorry it took me so long to reply to this!}}

[SASTRE QUICKSILVER]

Sastre nodded when the man asked if he was a hunter.

He liked to think that he was a pretty good judge of such things, but truthfully he was so exhausted that he wouldn't have been surprised to have made a huge mistake. And really, that was all he needed, for someone to think he was insane and call in the local police. As it stood, Sastre wanted to keep as low a profile as possible, at least until he found out what was really going on around here.

Extending his hand, Sastre introduced himself.

"I'm Sastre Quicksilver, by the way," he said, not bothering to use an alias. After all, his name was fairly well known among the hunter community, and had been since long before he was born, which helped fuel the illusion that "Sastre Quicksilver" was somehow immortal. He typically only used an alias when posing as a fed, or a cop, or the like.

"Hope you don't think I'm being too paranoid here, but..." He shrugged, pulling out a small silver blade and handing it to Dean, along with a vial of holy water mixed with salt. "You don't mind, right?"

All the while, Sastre was watching the man's reaction for anything that might give him away as being less than human. Not that Sastre was automatically against anything non-human--after all, he'd been working with Ronnie, a loup for the past few months without issue--but it was better to be safe than sorry. And there was always the possibility, of course, that even if this guy was human, he could still be worse than half of the monsters out there.

So, Sastre would wait to see how he fared with the tests, then he'd take things from there...

[DEAN WINCHESTER]

“Sastre Quicksilver?” Dean’s eyebrow’s raised in unison as he reached out and shook the guy’s hand.

“The Sastre Quicksilver?” It was a name he’d heard of before, a bedtime story his father had once told him of a legendary hunter who’s reputation was something of a fable in it’s own right. Supposedly, Quicksilver was the original vampire hunter from back in the day, the guy the Van Helsing myth was based on. There were numerous versions of the tale, often spun by old drunks in bars and of course, Dean had dismissed it in later years as Chinese whispers, a fabricated exaggeration of a man who was probably no less infallible than John Winchester, or even himself these days, despite the claims that Quicksilver had lived for centuries.

This stranger standing in front of him looked like an ordinary guy. All be it rough around the edges, but certainly not the man Dean had imagined as a kid to be the great Sastre Quicksilver. Either this guy was pulling his chain, or he was particularly good at being inconspicuous. Either way, the name alone was proof he was in the life because no civilian person would purposefully call themselves something as ridiculously bold as Sastre Quicksilver. Unless they were in a J.K. Rowling book.

"Hope you don't think I'm being too paranoid here, but..."

Out came a small knife, Dean instantly identified as silver, along with a vial of ever so slightly cloudy, what looked like, water. No doubt salted. Sastre was asking him to prove that he was really human. Not exactly subtle, even for a hunter, but a wise precaution all the same. Especially if he was in town on a job.

Nope, not paranoid at all...

"You don't mind, right?"

“I’ve heard plenty of stories about you, just never figured you were this blunt.” There was a pause as Dean looked him up and down.

“I also though you’d be older.” He took the blade and the vial, glancing around the deserted laundromat as he pondered accepting the challenge.

Now it wasn’t like Dean had anything to hide, he wasn’t a supernatural thing, however he wasn’t stupid enough to just drink something out of a random vial, given to him by a mystery man, without knowing for sure that it wasn’t going to poison him first. Politely he handed both items back.

“I don‘t mind, but you first.” Another brief pause before adding a smile. "You're not the only paranoid bastard around here."

[SASTRE QUICKSILVER]

Sastre ran a hand through his hair and chuckled a bit when the hunter referred to him as "the Sastre Quicksilver."

"Yeah, last time I checked anyway," he responded, inclining his head. He was a little surprised to find someone who recognized the name, as it'd been a lot of years since it had happened. Most of the newer brood of hunters didn't really care about a bedtime story like Sastre Quicksilver, or about the stories that their older, more seasoned companions told.

Sastre's lips quirked into a half-smile as the other hunter continued to speak.

"I find that being direct tends to work better than beating around the bush," Sastre told him, then added, "Well... usually, anyway. As for my age," he went on, shrugging, "who can really say how old I am, right?" He smirked a little at that, then raised a brow as the other man asked him to drink first.

Smart.

Without hesitation, Sastre popped the top off of the vial and quickly swallowed about half the salted holy water. It took an effort not to make a face, but somehow he managed before handing the vial and the knife back.

"Hope that eases your mind a little?"

[DEAN WINCHESTER]

Sastre passed the salt water test easily, neither sizzling like a demon nor falling down dead from poison, so it seemed only polite for Dean to take the vial from him and finish off the shot. With a little salute of the drink and a “Bottom’s up!” comment, Dean drank, barely masking his displeasure at the taste of lukewarm salt water.

“I much prefer whiskey.” He commented casually, capping the now empty vial and handing it back to it’s owner before wiping his lips with his fingers. His mind pictured the hip flask of cheap scotch in his jacket pocket, wishing that he could down the lot right now just to get through the remainder of the day. Somehow he doubted it would give a very good first impression so he held off for the time being, promising himself he’d have some once he’d figured out what this guy’s story was.

Since Quicksilver had gone first with the holy water, Dean slipped one arm out of his jacket to roll his shirt sleeve up to his elbow, taking the silver knife and pressing it to the skin of his forearm where countless old scars of exactly the same size and description had already faded over the years. If anyone out of the hunting world were to inspect him from head to toe, they’d probably come to the conclusion that he was the victim of repeated abuse and self harm. Of course that was true, but he doubted any one would see that in it’s proper context. Scars were just badges of honour when you were in the hunting life. A road map of where you'd been and souveniers of things you'd killed. If Dean's body was anything to go by, he was well travelled indeed.

Clenching his jaw shut to keep from making a noise, Dean drew the sharp edge of the blade across his arm, instantly bring forth a line of vivid red but causing no other reaction from the silver. It hurt, but to Dean it was as common a feeling as a paper cut.

“Do I pass?” Rolling his sleeve back down and cleaning the blade off by wiping it across the material, Dean handed the knife back, hilt first again.

“Your turn.” He added as he shrugged his jacket back on again.

[SASTRE QUICKSILVER]

Sastre took the knife from Dean and glanced around the laundromat quickly.

Content that there was no one around to be watching them, he rolled up his sleeve and cut into his forearm without hesitation. Of course there was no adverse reaction, so Sastre wiped the blade clean and flipped it, handing it back to Dean hilt first. Now that the initial testing period was out of the way, Sastre felt a bit more at ease around Dean.

"Always a good time when two hunters meet up for the first time, huh?" he asked with a tired chuckle. "So, you're just passing through then?"

Wandering back over, Sastre checked on his laundry, satisfied that it was dry enough. Pulling it out, he stuffed his now mostly-clean laundry into his duffel bag. He didn't have a lot of time to waste here, and wearing slightly damp clothes wasn't going to kill him. The phone calls he'd made to his contacts in town hadn't been answered, and that worried him. Sastre's next stop was going to be their home, though he knew a personal visit was dangerous.

All of Sastre's contacts were people that he'd helped out at one point or another in the past. People who were now "in the know" as it were, when it came to the supernatural, and people who wanted to return the favor and help him out when he needed it. Now, after his long years of hunting, Sastre had established a very large web of contacts and information, and he'd long ago decided that he'd never pay personal visits to them if he could help it. That way, if anything was watching or following him, it wouldn't be able to find out who his people were.

But he was out of choices now. His information network was slowly going dark, and he needed to know why.

"I have a bit of business here in town," Sastre began, surprised with himself for where he was going with this. "If you're up for it, I might need a hand. Not really sure what's going on yet--if anything at all--but I'd rather be safe than sorry..."

Well, there it was. Sastre was actually at a point where he was so weary--physically and emotionally--that he'd gone out on a limb and asked for help. What was the world coming to?

[DEAN WINCHESTER]

Maybe it was complacency, or just sheer weariness, but Dean found himself relaxing considerably when Sastre passed the knife test. In his eyes, this guy was now just a regular Joe, all be it with a supremely dangerous line of work, but no more a threat to him than the old dear shuffling down the street outside with her walking stick. True enough, she too might turn out to be a psychotic witch hell bent on world domination, but so long as they both didn’t start anything until he’d gotten some sleep, then they could do whatever the hell they wanted until then.

Or perhaps Dean was just that desperate for some familiar company that this hunter he’d never met before would fill the space Sam normally did at times like these.

“Yeah, just finished up a job over in Billings a couple of days ago. Nasty case of ghouls.” He paused, made a face and tacked on some clarification.

“Messy.”

With a shake of his head as if to dispel the memory, Dean stood up and began to drag his own laundry out of the dryer, lacking any real sense of tidiness as he balled stuff up and shoved it back into his duffel. Folding clothes was more Sam’s gig. Dean was all about the crumple.

"I have a bit of business here in town. If you're up for it, I might need a hand. Not really sure what's going on yet--if anything at all--but I'd rather be safe than sorry..."

There was a job here? How had he missed that? Surely he wasn't talking about the missing cat, right?

“Business? What kind we talking about here?”

Naturally he assumed the supernatural kind. This stranger wasn’t likely to invite him to help fill out his tax returns, but Dean never got in too deep before he knew what kind of trouble he’d be wading into.

Who am I kidding, I do that all the time…

If he was honest with himself, and to be fair that was probably the only time her ever was, he was eager to jump on a new case, whether it turned out to be nothing or not. He needed something, anything, to take his mind off his own issues for a while. Any excuse not to have to call people he knew who would instantly know that he wasn’t as peachy as he claimed to be.

Grasping at straws never looked so casual.

[SASTRE QUICKSILVER]

Sastre nodded when Dean mentioned the ghouls case.

He'd caught wind of it himself, but had had more pressing matters to attend to. In a way, he was sort of glad that someone else had handled. As Dean had said, ghoul jobs tended to be... messy. And Sastre wasn't sure that he had the patience to deal with such a thing right now, not while everything seemed to be slowly crashing down around him.

God, it took me years to get to this breaking point the first time, he thought to himself, frowning. Now? It's barely been a year since my last breakdown... This is all just too much...

Shaking it off, Sastre let his mind slip back into "hunter" mode, where nothing else mattered but getting the job done with as few casualties as possible. He had to focus on something that he actually had the power to affect, and not worry himself about the shade of his brother that seemed to be haunting him. At least, not right now.

For a brief moment, when Dean asked about the potential job, Sastre had second thoughts. He'd never been the kind of hunter to burden others with his problems. Sastre had become something of a one-man army after the deaths of Julien and Darian, and for the most part that was how he liked it. There just wasn't anyone else out there that he trusted to have his back any more. True, Lily had become something of an amazing hunter, but he could never ask her to help him, not when he spent a great deal of his free time--which, admittedly, wasn't much--trying to convince her to quit hunting.

I can't lose her too... Not like I lost Darian, and Julien... And Gwen.

He had to take a moment to clear his head again. Things were worse than he thought. He only mulled over his personal losses when he was at the end of his rope. But no, he couldn't be at that point already, could he? Not with so much at stake, and so much to do. But he couldn't do it alone. He needed help.

Sighing he glanced at Dean.

"Something has been systematically killing off my contacts. There are two of them here in town that I've gotten in touch with, and they're fine, thank God. I've set up a meeting with them to see if anything unusual has happened that they've noticed, and to make sure they can keep themselves safe."

He paused and frowned a bit, that having been more than he'd said to anyone in a long time, particularly a stranger. Oh well. His foot was in it now, anyway...

"After checking in with them, I plan on going after whatever's responsible. The meeting is in a half hour. You in?"

[DEAN WINCHESTER]

A meeting with potential hunting contacts? That sounded useful if nothing else. There were few in Dean’s line of business, even less that were actually sociable enough to share with other hunters, it could prove to be beneficial to get introduced just in case he ever needed the help himself in the future.

“Sure, I’m in.”

So what if he didn’t know all the details, wasn’t that what made it all the more interesting? Perhaps sitting in on a meeting would help him figure out more about this mysterious legend that was Sastre Quicksilver. Or maybe it would just end up being a few rounds of beer somewhere and a little amicable swapping of old stories that were greatly exaggerated to make the story teller appear braver than he actually was. Dean didn’t mind either way, this was the distraction he was looking for, it would have been pointless to dismiss it and bow out.

If he was really lucky then one, or both, of these so called contacts of Sastre’s would be a hot chick. Maybe he’d score some action to pass the time. Then again, he could count on one hand the number of hot chicks he knew that were in the hunting game. Most women didn’t have the stomach or the strength for it, and the one’s who did, well they tended not to be great lookers. Okay for a one night stand that you expected no one ever to find out about if you were desperate, but generally speaking, it was a man’s world where even the women were butch. There again though, there were a couple of ladies who surprised him. Jo Harvelle was one of them, Lane Sullivan was the other. Damn those women were spitfires. Pain’s in the ass, but definitely falling into the category of ‘hot chick’.

I wonder what they’re doing now….

All these things and more ran through Dean’s head as he followed Sastre to his meeting point, his Impala keeping pace with the motorbike the younger man rode along the way. The drive gave him time to consider a lot of things, the internal debate on whether women in hunting were eye candy or not, where he might be able to get a decent slice of cherry pie in this town, how sore his black eye was when he accidentally poked himself in the face during a sneeze, and most importantly, where did Sastre keep all of his weapons on a bike?

[SASTRE QUICKSILVER]

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
IS IT JUST ME, OR DO YOU WONDER
IF WE'RE PUT HERE JUST TO SEE
_{HOW MUCH HEARTACHE WE CAN TAKE
WITHOUT HANGING FROM THE TALLEST TREE?}
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The house was just on the other side of town, so it didn't take too long to get there.

More than once along the way, Sastre glanced back over his shoulder as he rode, wondering how much gas that antique car went through, and how Dean managed to keep the tank full. More than likely, he pulled the same type of credit card scams or pool hustling techniques that Sastre himself simply refused to do. That, more than anything else, was why he stuck to his bike: it cost a lot less to get from point A to point B, which meant he didn't have to take on as many odd jobs to make money for gas. And if he couldn't carry around as many weapons as the average hunter?

Well, that's one of the things the training did for me: taught me not to rely on a bunch of weapons and gear to get the job done...

He kept the essentials on hand in his duffel bag, of course. The things you didn't tend to just "find" on a job: holy water and rosaries, dead man's blood, and silver and iron blades and ammunition. Other than that, he usually carried only three guns: a sawed-off shotgun, and his two pistols, one of which he'd left with Kay. He traveled light.

It was how he was raised.

After a few minutes, the pair of hunters pulled up outside the house. It was pretty nondescript, the type of plain old house you could find just about anywhere in the country. Sastre cut the ignition on his bike and dismounted, heading for the front door, not bothering to wait for Dean. The older hunter had followed him this far; Sastre doubted he wouldn't follow him another thirty feet.

Reaching the door, Sastre knocked in the complex pattern that he an his contacts had agreed upon. Then he waited twenty seconds and repeated it. After that, it was their turn, and he waited... And waited... And waited. Furrowing his brow in concern, Sastre looked to Dean, frowning.

"Something's wrong," he told his impromptu partner. Drawing his 1900 Colt .38, Sastre met Dean's eyes. "Ready?"

Moments later, the front door was kicked in, splintering and filling the small entryway with bits of broken wood and glass. Sastre rushed in immediately after, sacrificing any hope of stealth to make a quick, surprise entrance that would catch any potential enemies off guard. Sastre was only just exiting the entryway when the smell hit him.

It was an old, familiar smell, one that he'd grown accustomed to over the years. Sickly sweet, copper-tinged... Blood. And a lot of it.

Keeping his gun raised, sensing Dean at his back, Sastre moved deeper into the house, finally reaching the living room, and the massacre therein. Blood was spattered everywhere. Everywhere. It coated the walls, the ceiling, the furniture... It pooled on the floor, around the pair of mutilated, nearly unrecognizable bodies...

Enough of them had been left intact, though, for Sastre to be able to recognize his contacts.

"Damn..."

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
_{TAGGED: Dean
NOTES: None
LYRICS: Senses Fail - "Saint Anthony"
CREDITS: Thanks to BUNNYA! at Caution 2.0}

[DEAN WINCHESTER]

While Sastre took the lead, heading up to the front door of the house to knock, Dean took a moment to survey the neighbourhood, finding it an unlikely place for a couple of hunters to be staying considering it’s tranquil appearance. Maybe that was the point. God knows he wanted a little bit of peace in his own life, too bad he was well aware he’d never find it.

Catching the tail end of the secret knock, Dean found himself wondering if he wasn’t about to find someone like Rufus on the other side of the door. Now there was a man who didn’t like being bothered when he was at home. Unless of course, you had a bottle of good old Johnny Blue with you.

"Something's wrong,"

“Maybe you need a secret password too?” Dean offered, doubting that was the problem. Especially not when Sastre was pulling out his gun to get ready to storm the fort as it were.

Ooo…is that a .38? He thought automatically, a second taken to admire the piece in his fellow hunter’s hand before he too was drawing his own weapon, the trusty old ivory handled Colt of his own, not entirely sure what he was getting himself into. Hadn’t they just been here for a meeting?

"Ready?"

Ready for what?

Dean had already taken an offensive stance though, gun gripped in both hands and ready to be discharged should someone or something on the other side of the door be in need of shooting. The prickle of hairs on the back of his neck was a sure sign that they weren’t about to burst in onto a tea party, experience had taught him that much and as soon as Sastre had kicked the door wide open, Dean was at his back, following him in, instinctively ready and able to back him up just as he would have Sam.

The smell of the blood hit him before he saw it, triggering memories of previous hunts, houses that he’d broken into, only to find the residents were no longer of the living variety. It made him clench his jaw in determination to find out the cause, instantly thankful he hadn’t eaten anything lately when the grim discovery came into sight. Mutilated body parts strewn across the floor, swimming in the blood that washed over everything. It could have been a scene from his time in Hell and for all Dean knew, he was right back there now, looking at some of his own handy work, half expecting to find Alastair applauding the horrors as if he was proud of his favourite student.

For the longest time Dean just stared, wide eyed in shock, throat closing up in choked disgust, the prickle of hairs on the back of his neck spreading all down his body now. His grip on the gun had become vice like and white knuckled as all he could see were demons swarming over his latest victim, bathing in the blood that pooled on the floor and laughing wickedly, the sound echoing in his head until Sastre’s curse snapped him out of it and everything returned to normal in the blink of an eye.

“These your contacts?” He asked, pushing away the flashbacks to a place where he wouldn’t have to deal with them right now. Focus, that’s what he had to do. There were two dead bodies to be investigated here, he had a job to do and that came first over his own issues.

“I‘ll check out the other rooms.”

Giving Quicksilver a moment to himself with the bodies, Dean stepped out and worked his way through the rest of the house, making sure that whatever monster had murdered the poor dead bastards wasn’t still lurking around.